Down in Old Pickham Town
by Dragovian Knight
Summary: Dragon Quest VIII. Post game. Marcello has been forced to take refuge in Pickham. Angelo offers him a way out.


When he gets to Pickham, he's almost afraid he won't find Marcello, almost sorry when he does. The room is a half-step up from sleeping in an alley, and Marcello is ragged and filthy, several days' worth of beard not concealing how thin his face has grown.

He wakes quickly when Angelo kneels beside him, though, coming up with a knife in his hand almost faster than Angelo can block. He does block it, luckily; blocks it and calls Marcello's name, pins him when he attacks again, and Goddess he's not just stronger than his brother, he's _much_ stronger, so much stronger it hurts.

For a moment, they're still, then Marcello snaps, "Get off me," and his voice, at least, is the same.

So are his eyes, fixed on Angelo in an icy green glare until Angelo looks down. They could almost be back in the abbey, but instead they're in this stinking pit, and if Angelo hated Pickham before for what it is, he hates it more now for what it's done to his brother.

He waits quietly, lets Marcello gather what dignity he can. The silence stretches painfully before Marcello says, "I assume you have a good reason for coming here."

Angelo pulls the letter from inside his jacket and holds it out so that the seal is visible. Marcello frowns - Angelo wonders if it's because he doesn't recognize the crest, or because he does - and instead of taking it, asks, "Where did you get this?"

"From Princess Alena of Santeem. There's a position soon to be available; I mentioned you'd be well suited to it." _Don't you dare refuse this the way you've refused every other bit of aid I've offered._ He tries to wait patiently, tries not to give Marcello reason - excuse - to refuse, but he can't help blurting, "I know it's on the far side of the world, but there's no point pretending you'll mind having a few oceans between us..."

"Shut up," Marcello says, and he's frowning, but the frown is concentration as he studies the ornate, foreign script, and there's no heat to his words.

Angelo bites his tongue and waits.

"I can hardly go halfway round the world in this state," Marcello says at length.

It sounds like dismissal, but Angelo thinks - because he watched Marcello's eyes travel from the bottom of the page back to the top no less than three times, and now Marcello is folding the letter carefully along the original creases, and there is something fine and brittle like hope in his expression - it means something else.

"I've taken up residence in Alexandria, of late," he says, trying to match Marcello's detached tone and knowing he's failing utterly. "It's a bit small, but," _nobody would turn you over to the Church for the reward,_ "large enough for you to prepare for your journey. You're welcome to accompany me home."

He can't read Marcello's expression, and he holds his breath, doesn't move, doesn't do anything that might run afoul of Marcello's stubborn pride. He wonders if he misread, if the offer itself did the damage, if he should have let Yangus deliver the letter; there are questions he expected that haven't been asked, and Marcello isn't looking at him, isn't looking, to be honest, at anything.

He isn't sure he'll be able to bear it if a misstep on his part makes Marcello cast this opportunity aside.

"Are you leaving?"

His heart sinks. "What?"

"I said, when are you leaving?"

"When can you be ready?" Marcello gives him a _look_, and he corrects, "In the morning?"

Marcello inclines his head. "I'll see you in the morning, then."

That _is_ dismissal, but success makes him reckless. "No," he says as he rises, not because he doubts Marcello will appear, but because Marcello deserves a bath and a bed and a decent meal before they set out. "Spend the night at the inn with me." And before Marcello can refuse, "We'll get an earlier start."

Marcello sighs. "Very well," he says after a moment, when it's clear Angelo isn't going to leave.

He pushes himself to his feet, slower than he ought to be, and Angelo knows better than to offer his hand.

* * *

Author's Note: This story is based on the premise that, somewhere in the world of DQ8, the kingdoms of Dragon Warrior 4 exist. After all Taloon and Ragnar had to get to the Monster Arena from somewhere. 


End file.
